Breakfast in Winter

The unmistakeable smell of water-swelled oats,
motionless and day-old, in
the plastic bowl, brushes frightfully slow
against my nose.

In my mouth they cling haplessly
to tongue and teeth,
dear to them
as mother's teat.

Awaiting the black gorge and
the confused expression of the
black woman.

She doesn't know whether to chew endlessly
or to swallow the bloated, whole.